Indomitable
by dieselwriter
Summary: Ron Weasley hated to run...or so he thought. DH compatible. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/n**: This is just something I had to get out. I'll get back to _Tales_ next, I promise. This story's coming in three chapters, or more like a prologue, story, and epilogue. Call it what you will, but expect the next update tomorrow and the last one the day after that.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did Ron would be the main character and Fred wouldn't have died. :P

**Summary**: Ron Weasley hated to run...or so he thought. DH compatible.

**A Word of Caution**: Plenty of bad language in this, hence the rating. Can I help it if Ron has a dirty mouth? XP

* * *

**Indomitable  
****By dieselwriter**

My name is Ron Weasley. I am 18 years old. I hate running.

It's been a year since Voldemort's downfall, and George and I have finally gotten Wheezes back up and running. Fred'd be proud, I bet, if he could see George right now. Christmas was hard, but since then George's nearly been back to his old self. I've also been noticing Angelina's been showing up to the shop more often than a grown woman should show up at a joke shop.

Harry's also been around a lot, begging me to run. He says he likes to pace himself with my long legs, says it's good for his endurance training for the Auror program.

I think it's a load of bollocks. He just wants me to run so I can get in shape and sign up for the Auror program with him.

I don't honestly mind the first two miles; Harry and I hold conversations about everything from Quidditch to politics when we make our first two laps at the park. But then he gets silent as he concentrates more on his breathing and pacing, and that leads me to my own thoughts, which turn to how fucking sore my legs are and how fucking hard it is to breath.

Ah, I should mention now that I swear more often when I'm tired or when I'm hungry. Running leads to both. Ergo, running leads to me making sure I'm never around my mother before, during, or after a run.

I think Harry's getting pissed with me slowing down after the third mile. He says he could run for six miles without me slowing him down. I tell him he's the bastard who forced me out here in the first place.

He's none too pleased with that remark.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. I'm still 18. I truly loathe running.

Harry and I have our own apartment now, and I've enrolled in the Auror program. Bless the smarmy git, he doesn't drag me out on runs like he used to. Unfortunately he doesn't need to.

Senior Auror Williams, the Auror in charge of new recruits, took one look at me and his normally hard face split into a ridiculous grin. He'd heard of me through Kingsley through Harry or some shit like that. He saw how tall and lean I was and assumed automatically I was a runner. I seriously considered doing a runner when he told me I'd have to run 25 miles a week for training.

So now I'm forced to run with Harry. Five miles, five days a week. We still talk for the first two miles, and I've started to really bitch after the fourth mile. Harry is rightfully pissed and has given up running with me altogether.

Without a running partner, I'm left with my own thoughts for five miles instead of three, and I'm utter crap.

Senior Auror Williams must have noticed during a practice session. Probably when my entire right leg cramped up and I caused my whole squad to get captured by the enemy during our training exercise.

He's assigned me to the plan I'd already committed myself to: five miles a day, five days a week. Except now I have to come into work two and a half hours early to run with his minions, the Junior Aurors.

Dammit, I hate running with those sycophantic gits.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. I'm 20 years old. I do running. I don't love it, I don't hate it: I just do it.

I've moved out of the apartment and Ginny's moved in with Harry. I'm not sure how to feel about it yet, but on the rare occasions Harry asks me to run with him I have to fight back my initial instinct to slam the door in his face.

I can easily do 35 miles a week now. I've been through three pairs of trainers since I began the Auror program, and with feet my size it's getting continually harder to find a decent pair of running shoes that last longer than 8 months.

I've got a new place close to the Burrow now. I might've been homesick when I made the decision to move here. I'll say it now, Harry and I really aren't much of cooks, and that's putting it nicely; we've both had our turns at nearly catching the place on fire when making something as simple as tea and toast.

Hermione's been teetering on moving in. We've been going out ever since the war ended, but I can tell she's reluctant to take such a big step forward in our relationship.

To be perfectly honest, I'm nervous too.

But back on point: Harry's quite involved with Ginny now, and that's why he doesn't show up as often to run with me. We may be compatible as best friends, but we really are crap at running in synch.

I've finally started utilizing my long legs to my advantage, and Harry can't keep up. But then Harry's been running a year longer than I have, so he can still run longer than I can. He's already done a half-marathon, and he's told me he'll sign us both up next year.

I'm not excited at the prospect, but I don't despise the idea as I would have a few years ago.

I'll just do it.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. I'm 20 years old still, but I'm only a few weeks off of my 21st birthday. And I think I've started to like running.

Against her mother's wishes, Hermione's moved in…sort of. She'll stay a few days and then her mother will send a letter and she'll be off back to her house to sort it all out. Then when I think that I'd might as well pack her stuff and send it back to her, she'll show up at the front door at two in the morning.

The best thing about my new flat, apart from the close proximity to the Burrow, is my new neighbors: the Abbotts.

Hannah's been working at the Leaky Cauldron for the past year or two, scraping up enough money to take care of her younger brother Nick. The death of their mother sent their father into a horrible depression. He sits at the pub in town most days, drinking his sorrows away.

As such, when Hannah's working, I often volunteer to take little Nick off her hands. She'll often return the favor by inviting me over for dinner, which I accept eagerly. Apparently my poor cooking skills are already well known by the neighbors, probably because of the evacuation I caused when my attempt at dinner set off the fire alarm the second week I moved in.

Thank God for Hermione; she's no mum, but she's a hell of a lot better at making edible food than I am.

But I digress. The first few times Nick came over to my place, I hadn't the slightest clue as to what to do with him. I'm 20 and he's nine, see; both of us the youngest boy in our families. We had a lot in common but nothing to talk about.

One day, though, right before I was setting out to run, Hannah had come over with her little brother in hand, begging me to watch him. I couldn't refuse; the desperation in her eyes told me it was an emergency.

She left as soon as I'd agreed, and Nick was left staring at me in confusion.

He wanted to know if he'd interrupted me from going somewhere. I was about to explain when he'd started spieling about how he could take care of himself and he and his sister weren't a charity case that I should feel obliged to take on. They didn't need my help. _He_ didn't need my help.

I saw so much of myself in his fierce pride that I'd immediately asked him to join me on my run.

He stared at me, wondering if there was an ulterior motive, before asking me if he could bring his bicycle.

I could only stare at him in wonder.

What the hell's a bicycle?

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 21 years old. I like to run.

I've found another reason why I love it where I'm living: I'm in the country. I can run where I please, no one bothering me.

But I do have someone to bother me now, and I don't mind in the slightest.

Nick joins me in nearly every run now. He's easily the best running partner I've ever had, because he rides his bike beside me rather than run. He doesn't tire out as easily as Harry, so we can talk as long as I want so I have less time to delve into my thoughts.

The bicycle is a weird Muggle invention, by the way. Two wheels and a steel frame, plus two pedals to make it go and a handlebar to help steer. Nick let me try it once…he still laughs about that.

Our conversations have been way better as well. We talk about whatever he wants to talk about, really; he's quite a chatterbox now that we're friends.

He's an avid fan of the Wimbourne Wasps, and he nearly had a seizure of enthusiasm when I told him I'd met Ludo Bagman my fourth year.

Quidditch conversations usually lead to talking about Hogwarts. Being ten, Nick's been a mixture of butterflies and excitement the past few months, thinking about the magical school he'll soon attend.

I still swear like a sailor after the seventh mile. Nick finds it extremely amusing. Hermione and Hannah both find it extremely offensive, especially when Nick spews out an expletive when he gets spooked or injured unexpectedly.

Hannah doesn't invite me over to dinner much anymore. I notice, though, that Neville seems around even more than their father. Poor bastard.

Mr. Abbott, I mean, not Neville. Neville's been working at the Apothecary in Diagon Alley since the end of the war, learning all he can about the magical plants used in potion making. He's been frequenting the Leaky Cauldron after work and Hannah often comes back late, her cheeks flushed and a smile on her lips.

I've run my first half-marathon. I liked it.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 22 years old. I don't like running anymore.

Nick's gone to Hogwarts. I've lost my running partner.

I'm a selfish arse, but I don't care.

I hate running.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm still 22. I like running again.

Nick's returned for Christmas holidays. It's fucking freezing, but we hit the snow nearly every day anyway. More for Hannah's sake than Nick's, we don't run more than two miles. I bought him snow tires for his mountain bike for an early Christmas present. He and Hannah pitched in to get me a new pair of trainers.

I need to find a new running partner. I like running too much to hate it again.

* * *

"_We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves..."_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n**: MoonyIsTheMan, thanks for the review. I took your advice! ;) And thanks as well to the rest of you! Cookies and/or biscuits for all of you!

Same warning as before, people: profanity is abundant!

Happy reading!

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. Yeah, I'm still 22. I still like running.

Nick's back at Hogwarts, but Hannah's taken some of her days off to come running with me. She's slow as hell and can't make it past three miles, but she talks the entire time with me. I appreciate the effort she's making, but she's only available once or twice a week, and I need to run at least four times a week.

Hannah makes Neville come run with me sometimes. Neville's a great bloke and all, but next to the prats Senior Auror Williams used to make me run with, he's the worst running partner I've ever had.

He as clumsy as ever and often runs into me or trips over tree roots. After the first mile he'll be huffing and puffing and after mile two I have to stop for his sake. If I didn't stop, he wouldn't; he still has the heart of a lion and will push himself to his limits just so he can keep up with me.

Poor bastard. And this time I am talking about Neville.

He runs with me and then goes right back to Hannah, smiling and ignoring the fact that he had just vomited in the dustbin outside the flat.

Harry's been running with Ginny apparently, trying to keep her in Quidditch shape. He's signed the three of us up for a real marathon next month.

I've told Neville that his running partner services won't be required for the next month, since I'll be in training.

He doesn't seem too upset.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 23 years old. I think I really like to run now.

The marathon went perfect. Better than perfect. I only had a month to prepare and was ill all over the sidewalk by the finish line. I couldn't move at all the next day.

But I've found a new running partner.

I don't know why Ginny's never ran with me before, but now we run four times a week together.

I've always known my sister was athletic, just as I've known she's loved to gossip. As such, I'm still trying to decide why I never bothered asking her to run with me.

Harry doesn't seem too perturbed about my stealing his running partner. He apparently had the same problem with her as he'd had with me: both Ginny and I talk too much after the second mile for his liking.

Guess it's a Weasley thing.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 23 years old. I really like running.

Nick's home for the summer.

Ginny, Nick, and I average 40 miles a week, no matter the weather.

Ginny swears as much as I do after the seventh mile.

Nick finds our antics hilarious.

I fucking love running.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 24 years old. I have a love/hate relationship with running.

My knee hurts.

Ginny and Harry got married a few months ago. The day of her wedding, we ran our own impromptu half-marathon. Mum was in hysterics when we showed up at the Burrow in our trainers, soaked with sweat.

And now Ginny's pregnant. We're running another 10 miles talking about it all. She's only a month along but she's already picking out baby names.

She and Harry both like the name James.

They also both like the idea of me being godfather.

I trip on a tree root and nearly twist my knee.

My knee fucking hurts, but my heart is soaring.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 25 years old. I love running.

I'm _in_ love with Hermione Jean Granger.

I'm a godfather.

I'm getting married in a month.

I've got myself a new running partner for when Nick's at Hogwarts.

Harry's godson Teddy comes over often, and Nick lets him borrow his bike so he can ride next to me.

I'm going to be a husband.

I'm going to be shitting myself.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 28 years old. I love to run when I have the time to do so.

I've got myself a new family and a new house in the country where we can grow and love.

Rosie's an angel. She loves playing with my godson James Sirius. Ginny's due any day now with another boy. Teddy's at Hogwarts now and with him and Ginny out of commission I've no one to run with.

But Hermione and Rosie don't give me much time to run anymore. Harry's the same, as is Ginny of course. But Ginny's days of Quidditch are long gone now anyway, so she only runs for fun when she's able.

Harry and I are forced to run together when we have the time. Despite our inability to run well together, it's better than the alternative of running alone.

An unfamiliar owl delivers the post. Neville and Hannah are getting married.

Both of them are shitty runners, but I know that, come their big day, I'll be running with both of them separately.

Here's hoping I only have to worry about Neville getting sick.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 28 years old. I got in trouble because of running.

Hermione was at home alone with Rosie when she went into labor with Hugo. I was out running with Neville.

Thank God Neville's a big bloke. We were home only ten minutes after her water broke.

Hermione took her rage out on my fingers: she broke three of them as I held her hand during the birth. Rosie giggled as my misshapen, purple fingers were fixed by a Healer. Hermione apologized profusely afterward.

I reckon she did it on purpose.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 29 years old. I love running alone now.

I don't know what did it. Nick graduated from Hogwarts last month.

He's been talking a lot about two things: traveling and doing a triathlon. As a graduation gift I got him a new bike to attempt to compromise his two wishes, although he wasn't so sure how long it'd take to get to France on bike.

He gave me his old bike as thanks.

I'm not sure what to do with the old thing. It's been sitting in my shed already, since Teddy left it with me before he left for school.

I think I'm going to keep it for Rosie.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 31 years old. I love running with Nick.

It's the first time he's ever run with me. He's ditched the bike to jog by my side.

He's in town for his father's funeral. Mr. Abbott passed a week ago from alcohol poisoning, poor soul.

Nick tells me he's found himself a girlfriend. He and Michelle met during a triathlon and they plan on running another one next month. He wants to know if I'll join him for a swim tomorrow. I ask him what time, since the funeral's tomorrow.

He wants to get up at five.

Damn it all; we're on our seventh mile. Nick laughs for old time's sake as I let out a stream of expletives at knowing what time I'll be getting up tomorrow for a cold bath.

Rosie's going to be mad when I tell her where I'm going to be tomorrow morning. She loves to swim.

But there's no real question of me going or not. I've always asked him to run with me and he's always obliged, so I can't really see my denying him.

My knee hurts again.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 37 years old. I love running with my daughter.

Rosie's going off to Hogwarts tomorrow. I'm going to miss her terribly. I've gotten used to her riding alongside me on Nick's old bike.

She was a good running partner. She's quiet like Harry, but for obviously different reasons. Harry wouldn't talk because he'd be too busy worrying about work and his kids and every other burden he continues to put on his shoulders. In those early days when we first started running I used to think he'd need another arch nemesis so he wouldn't go crazy with boredom.

Rosie, on the other hand, isn't obsessing over her worries when she becomes silent. Even as she rides her bike at my side right now I can see on her face that she's not anxiously thinking about going to Hogwarts tomorrow.

She's pensive and peaceful, even as we pass mile seven and I swear as silently as I can when my knee starts aching again.

I'm pretty sure she gets it from her mother.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 39 years old. I loved running with my son.

Hugo and Rosie are both at Hogwarts now.

I run alone, trying to concentrate on the sound of my trainers slapping on the wooden bridge I'm crossing.

My knee fucking hurts, but my heart hurts more.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 40 years old. I love running at twilight.

Hermione does not.

Twilight means dark. Twilight means dinner, shower, bed. Twilight should not mean running. It makes her nervous.

But it's freeing to me. I get a whole new assortment of sounds and sights when I run at night. It's something new, and helps distract me when I've got no one else to run with.

That's quite often now.

But Hermione's been lonesome without the kids, too. She's been talking about getting a cat. Crookshanks passed a while ago now (that cat lived all nine lives and more if you ask me), and she's been craving babying a new pet for a while now.

I've been trying to convince her to get a dog instead. I could go running with a dog.

Running at twilight doesn't quite fill the void, after all.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 42 years old. I love running with my dog.

Yes, we got a dog. A great big black lab named Rapier. Hermione loves him because she has to take care of him constantly. He's big and bulky and doesn't seem to know his own strength; he'll knock his body into the side table without knowing it and break a vase or knock over a stack of Quibblers. She loves continually cleaning up after him, and that doesn't even take into account the enormous amount of fur he sheds all over the house. It's a lot like taking care of a third child for her.

My favorite trick of Rapier's is whenever he crawls up on the furniture to sit in Hermione's lap when she least suspects it. I would love him for that reason alone, but I truly love him because he's my new running partner. And what a grand running partner he is.

I don't have to go running at twilight now, which alleviates Hermione's fears. I can go run at anytime with Rapier by my side.

The only downside to my new partner is my distance: I've had to decrease from the 40 miles a week I used to run to less than 30. Hermione approves, probably thinking of all the times I come home complaining about my knee. I still feel like I could do 40 a week, but I know that's asking too much of my poor dog.

I don't care, though; I'd run less than 20 miles a week as long as I ran each and every single one of them with Rapier.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 48 years old. I love running at twilight again.

Rapier's gotten way too old and fat to run with me anymore. Hermione's seen to it that that dog turned in every way and shape into another Crookshanks, except of course it's a giant black lab instead of a giant cranky cat.

To Hermione's vexation, I've started running at twilight again. The kids are out having lives now, and I've needed something to fill my time. Let's face it, being Senior Auror Weasley means I sit on my arse most of the day and do paperwork. Hermione at least likes that aspect of my life.

Back in the early years after the second war ended, Death Eaters escaping the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort wannabes swarmed around the country as fast as refugees returned to their homes. Senior Aurors were called out for the most difficult of cases and were hailed as heroes when they prevailed.

With most of the threat of Death Eaters far behind us now, us Senior Aurors have had less and less to do. The Aurors take care of all the dangerous jobs, continually saying that they don't want to worry us Senior Aurors with dirty work unbefitting us.

I say it's all bullshit. I'm sick of being treated like an obsolete old bat. I'm in great shape, I still run three times a week, and I can do whatever those young lads can and—

Oh shit.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 48 years old. I've stopped running.

I've fucked up my knee. It was what Hermione had always been afraid of: me taking a misstep in the dark and twisting my knee good and proper.

It's even worse because I am alone.

I've never taken my wand on a run. I'm in pain and in the middle of the country side and it's steadily growing darker. I can't move…I'm stuck.

My only consolation is that I'm near the end of my run and thus close to the house. With any luck Hermione will come out in a few minutes, worried, and I'll be able to shout out at her.

All I have to do is wait.

Twilight is a magnificent thing to watch. Red changes to purple, purple changes to dark blue, and dark blue changes to black. The moon shines brilliantly first, and the stars follow quickly after. Thank God for a cloudless, moon-filled night. It's comforting.

Rapier's positively howling. I think he knows something's wrong. But Hermione's voice isn't calling out, so I can only assume she thinks he wants to get at a gnome in the backyard.

My foot spasms from being still for so long and a new wave of pain seizes my knee. I can only pray Hermione will figure out what's happened soon.

Watching twilight turn to night isn't a comfort anymore. The bright moon and twinkling stars are just a distraction now.

Rapier's barking has stopped but now I can hear Hermione shouting. She must have opened the door and been surprised at the speed the old lazy dog had mustered to come after me.

I can hear him coming closer; his pants are ludicrously loud in the night and the second he arrives he makes sure to get all the slobber he's accumulated during his short trip on my face.

Hermione's not far off, initially afraid for the dog rather than me. But she shows up soon enough and she levitates me home, keeping her '_I told you so_' remarks to herself.

She shows extraordinary strength even now just for holding it in.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. I'm 50 years old. I can't run anymore.

The first few months after my accident, I had to use a cane. I got bored with that rather quickly and only use the thing to beat Rapier on the backside when his fat lazy arse is in my way.

I can't run though; not anymore. My knee can't support that kind of pressure, according to the Healers. I don't think I plan to disobey, though; I wake up every morning and have to massage my stiff joint so it won't be sore all day.

The grandkids come over more often. I think Hermione's put Hugo and Rosie up to it to try to make me feel better about my knee.

I'm quite sure that's why I married her.

She's been talking about power walking. Where I would have scoffed the idea into oblivion a few years ago, I now find myself taking a liking to the idea.

That night I dig out my old pair of trainers.

* * *

"_The more restricted our society and work become, the more necessary it will be to find some outlet for this craving for freedom. No one can say, 'You must not run faster than this, or jump higher than that.'"_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n**: Well, guys, here's the final chapter. It's more of an epilogue...and it's rather short...but I know you'll like it anyway. :)

Thanks to all of my fantabulous reviewers; you can't hide your awesomeness in a bushel of apples, and don't you forget it! :D

Please let me know what you thought of this fic...it was my first attempt at first person point of view, and I'd love to know how you all thought I did. Thanks in advance!

And now, on with the last chapter.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. I'm pretty old now...63. I don't run anymore— I walk.

Before Rapier passed away, Hermione and I would take him on a walk through the countryside every morning. I loved it cause it got me back on my feet and Hermione said the physical activity was good for us and some other medical shit like that.

Walking reminds me of running: I get tired and hungry, and thus quite profane, easily.

But every time I land an expletive whenever my knee gives a painful twinge, Hermione's there to slap me on the arm in quiet reprimand.

Ginny and Harry come over often to walk with us. Harry retired a few years ago from the Auror Department and has since been enjoying his time with his kids and grandkids. Whenever they're around long enough to walk, we have great times reminiscing about our years at Hogwarts and wonder about the changes our grandkids tell us about.

I'm quite sure they've made up the fact that the giant squid is now teaching Care of Magical Creatures.

* * *

I'm Ron Weasley. No, I won't say how old I really am. I'm sick of hearing the old man cracks from Rosie and Hugo and I especially don't want to hear them from anyone else. Oh fine, you bloody scavengers…I'm 74. I can't run and I can't walk well, so I hobble.

Hermione and I have moved to the beach. I love it—every evening we take a walk on the beach. The warm sand is cooling off and it helps support my knee in ways my bloody cane never can.

I'm dependent on the thing now; my Healer ordered me to use it everywhere but bed. Hermione begged me to bring it when we first started our walks, but I think I've finally convinced her that the cane is just no use on the sand. Nor is it necessary.

Rosie and Hugo love our new locale as well. They bring their kids over for a day at the beach every so often. The grandkids really have a wicked time with us old fogies…a surprisingly wicked time, I suppose, given the circumstances.

I hate my bloody cane. I hate having to totter about after my grandchildren like some broken down old man. It's like my bloody ball and chain, except even without the damn thing I'm still a prisoner confined to my wonky knee. I hate being restricted; I miss my mobility.

I miss being free.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. I don't know how old I am…really old, I imagine, if I can't remember how old I am. I haven't been on my feet in a long time.

Hermione likes making snarky comments about no longer needing the cane I so despised. She's at my bedside right now, looking young and beautiful as always. I tell her so, but she looks at me funny before telling me that she's Rosie, not Hermione.

I blink at her. Of course she's Rosie…that's what I said, isn't it?

Then where is Hermione?

I frown before turning to the old woman crying silently beside Rosie.

Ah, dammit, I've forgotten again.

I'm Ron, I think. I'm old. I've forgotten myself.

I was someone, I'm sure.

* * *

My name is Ron Weasley. That's the only thing I really know about myself now. I miss living.

My Healer Melissa is constantly in the room, watching over me, checking my vitals, keeping me alive. Well, I can't call it that, not anymore. She helps me survive; I've forfeited living a long time ago. I'm biding my time now, and even poor Millie seems to understand that.

Who's Millie? My Healer…I've mentioned her before, haven't I?

She's at my side once again to check me over. I thank little Margaret, and she smiles sadly at me before correcting me and telling me her name is Maryann.

I can tell by the tone of her voice that she's told me this before. I just wish I could remember.

The same old woman who is constantly at my side leans over the bed to grab my hand. I feel as if I should say something to her, thank her maybe, but such a heat has emitted from her hand into mine that all I can do is marvel at her touch.

She's crying again, and I apologize.

I can tell somehow that I've told her that before.

I just wish I could remember.

* * *

I'm gone.

Hermione's clutching my hand like a life support, shouting for help and crying incessantly. I want to soothe her, to tell her everything will be fine, but before I can turn to see her, someone else catches my eye.

Fred's there, suddenly, in front of me. Smiling, and in just the same way as he left my world, he's entered it again.

Or perhaps I've entered his world.

He's bent over, lacing up his trainers, giving me a mischievous grin.

Hermione's not the only one shouting now, but I can only see Fred right now.

Fred's back on his feet, jumping from foot to foot, still with that impish glint in his eye. I can tell what he wants: a race.

I'm on my feet before I know it, and my knee no longer hurts. I'm tired. I've been tired for a long time. Hermione's grip is lessening on my hand, and I want to say something to her, but I'm afraid.

I'm so tired, I know I'll curse, and I don't want her mad at me, see.

Fred's pumping his arms in anticipation, ready to dart ahead of me the moment I get close to him.

Rapier has appeared at my side, wagging his tail and rubbing his big head against my thigh.

As Hermione finally releases my hand the fatigue melts away.

Fred laughs and dashes ahead like I suspected he would, racing toward a light I'd failed to see before.

I join in the laughter as Rapier and I run after him.

I'm Ron Weasley. I'm living. I'm free.

* * *

"_The human spirit is indomitable."  
_-Sir Roger Bannister


End file.
